My comic book, When the Paw Prints End, started with a simple question, but it wasn’t “Will the boy find his mother?” It was, “How does loss shape the choices we make?” On the surface, it’s an adventure about an orphan boy and three cats. But for me, it was always a story about four different kinds of grief, each character a study in how we carry our past.
The boy’s loss is a compass, a pure, hopeful north star pointing him toward his mother. But the cats’ grief is a tangled knot of guilt and trauma. I spent more time thinking about their backstory than any other part of the plot. I gave them a secret: the memory of a fire they accidentally caused, a memory that burned. I had to understand this part of them, because it was the only way to explain their desperation. Their suggestion to steal in Chapter 4 isn’t born from malice; it’s a scar from their past, a belief that survival is a dirty business and that they don’t deserve an honest path.
That moral crossroads in the story, under the dim lantern light, is the absolute heart of the entire book. When the boy looks at his new friends and says, “I want to find my mother – but not like that,” he’s doing more than rejecting their idea. He is defining himself. He is choosing his integrity over his goal, even when he has nothing else. Illustrating that scene, I remember focusing on the boy’s hands – clenched, but not in anger. They were clenched with conviction. In that moment, he becomes the moral anchor for his tiny, fractured family.
This project was a deep dive into the psychology of a “found family”. There is this group of broken souls who have to learn not just to trust each other, but to heal each other. Their bonds are formed on grand speeches, but built in the quiet moments, from helping an old vendor set up his cart, to the rhythmic work of mowing a lawn together, or in the shared huddle under a streetlamp in the overwhelming rain of New York.
The most incredible part of this journey was watching the story’s theme of kindness ripple out into the real world. The 10 million VND we raised from sales felt like a tangible representation of the story’s message. Using that money to fund a Mid-Autumn Festival for 40 children at the Kid Time Center was like writing the book’s true, final chapter. In the end, the paw prints didn’t just lead to a potential new home for the characters; they led to a real night of laughter, light, and community. It taught me that stories aren’t just a reflection of our inner worlds; they have the power to create real joy in the outer one.
Working on Vieture has been one of the most fulfilling creative journeys of my life. As Creative & Content Director, I wanted every page to feel like a window into Vietnam — not as a destination, but as a living narrative shaped by its people, textures, and traditions.
Designing the magazine’s covers and visual flow became more than just an aesthetic exercise; it was a way to translate cultural essence into form. Every layout — from a quiet morning in Hanoi’s Old Quarter to the rhythm of waves in Quy Nhơn — carried the warmth, imperfection, and spirit that define our country.
What I cherished most was the collaboration: guiding writers, photographers, and editors to weave words and visuals into a unified voice. Seeing international readers hold a copy of Vieture and feel connected — even briefly — to Vietnam’s soul reminded me why I create: to bridge stories across cultures through design, empathy, and beauty.
Creating Hidden Grace was a profoundly introspective journey. Each painting became a quiet dialogue between my inner self and the emotions I often found difficult to articulate — vulnerability, fear, serenity, and hope. I wanted to capture the invisible grace that exists within human imperfection — how fragility can coexist with strength, and how silence can hold unspeakable depth.
Throughout the process, I learned that art is not merely about depicting emotion, but about understanding it. The exhibition allowed me to transform personal introspection into shared empathy — to let viewers see a part of themselves reflected in each brushstroke. From sketching the earliest concepts to curating the virtual gallery and auctioning my works for charity, Hidden Grace became more than an art project; it became a statement about the healing power of creation and the quiet connection between art and humanity.
Sensory Realm began as an experiment — a question of how far art could reach beyond sight. I wanted to dissolve the boundary between the artwork and the audience, allowing people not just to observe, but to feel, listen, and interact. Each installation was designed as an immersive experience: textured paint inviting touch, shifting lights altering perception, and sound-linked QR codes turning motion into melody.
Working alongside 15 fellow student artists, I learned how collaboration can amplify imagination. The process of curating more than ninety pieces taught me to balance chaos and harmony — to weave individual visions into a collective sensory journey. Watching visitors trace surfaces, pause at a flicker of color, or close their eyes to listen reminded me that art is not only seen, but lived.
For me, Sensory Realm was a celebration of perception — an invitation to rediscover the world through every sense, and to realize that creativity begins where the senses meet emotion.